"Very well. I will be there in half an hour. Good-by." He hung up the receiver.
"Was it anything—anything more, Mr. Duvall?" asked Mrs. Morton.
"No. Nothing of that sort. Well, I must go along now. I merely looked in to ask after your daughter. There is one thing I want you to do, however, and that is, let me have a key to your apartment on 57th Street."
Mrs. Morton took the key from her purse, and handed it to him.
"Haven't you any good news, yet?" she asked, somewhat pathetically.
"Not yet—at least nothing very definite. I know the woman who is annoying your daughter by sight, however, and I think I can safely assure you that she will be under arrest before very long. Matters of this sort take time, Mrs. Morton. Remember that I have had charge of the case but three days, and these people we are looking for are shrewd, leaving few clues. But I feel that I shall have something definite to report very soon now."
"I hope so, I'm sure. Good day."
"Good day." Duvall left the room, and taking a taxi, drove down to see Grace.
He found her sitting at the writing desk, in the reception room of their suite, apparently busy over a letter. She pushed the sheet of paper aside, when her husband entered, and threw her arms about his neck.
"Richard!" she exclaimed, "I'm so glad to see you. It has been ages. What's the matter with you? You look dreadfully blue."